


The One Where Mark is Really Sick

by orphan_account



Category: letsplay, markiplier - Fandom, youtube - Fandom
Genre: F/M, Markiplier - Freeform, markiplier imagines, markiplier preferences
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-17
Updated: 2016-08-17
Packaged: 2018-08-09 09:04:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 983
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7795675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I really hope it’s just a 24-hour thing,” you say into the phone to your mother. “I just feel so bad for him. He can barely do anything. I’ve even had to feed him broth - that’s the only thing he can keep down for more than fifteen minutes.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	The One Where Mark is Really Sick

“I really hope it’s just a 24-hour thing,” you say into the phone to your mother. “I just feel _so_ bad for him. He can barely do anything. I’ve even had to feed him broth - that’s the only thing he can keep down for more than fifteen minutes.”

“Just make sure he doesn’t get dehydrated,” your mother says. She’s a registered nurse, so you always call her for advice when anyone within a ten-mile radius of you gets sick. “And let him sleep for as long as he wants. Don’t wake him up to eat if he can’t keep anything down.”

“Okay,” you say. “What ab-” The sounds of Mark’s retching cut you off before you can even get your next question out. “Oh, god. Mom, I gotta go. He’s puking again.”

Without a waiting for a goodbye from your mother, you end the call and race up the stairs to your bedroom. You wince at the mess Mark has made on his way to the bathroom, but you jump over it in order to get to him.

“Baby,” you whisper, touching his back gently. It’s startlingly hot, and you hope that he’s not running a fever on top of having the flu. “Are you okay?”

Mark moans into the toilet bowl, his forehead resting on his forearm.

You rub his back for a second longer before getting up to wet a washcloth. Once it’s cool enough, you bend down and place it on the nape of his neck, hoping that the sensation will calm the heat radiating off of his skin.

“I’m sorry,” he mutters, his voice scratchy and barely audible.

“Don’t be sorry,” you tut, pressing slightly on the washcloth. “You can’t help it. I just hope this goes away soon.”

“I tried to make it to the toilet,” he clears his throat and winces at the taste.

You move to get him a small glass of water to rinse his mouth. “I forgot to put the bucket back; don’t worry about it, honey.” And although the both of you hate pet names beyond babe or baby, you think this situation calls for one.

After sitting in the bathroom for another five minutes, you help Mark up and walk him to the bed, carefully avoiding the evidence of his sickness on your way.

“Eugh,” Mark grimaces. “I’m so sorry.”

“Stop,” you gently pat his back and ease him down to the bed in what feels like slow motion. “You’re sick. It happens.”

Once Mark is comfortable in bed, you tackle the mess on the floor, trying your hardest to put on a brave face for your boyfriend as he apologizes endlessly for making you do this. Each time he apologizes, you reprimand him, knowing that he would do the same for you if the situation were flipped.

“Okay,” you breathe once you’ve finished putting the cleaning supplies back in the kitchen and taking the garbage out. Hitting the light switch so that the only light illuminating the room was the television, you ask, “Do you need anything?” You flip on the switch to the electric fireplace that’s directly across from your bed - there was a chill in the air, unusual for this time of year.

“No,” he mutters with his eyes closed. “Will you lay with me?”

You smirk and take your house slippers off of your feet. Mark tries and fails to lift the sheets and down comforter on your bed, and you laugh with what sounds like pity at his attempts. “Just rest, okay?” you say as you slide in next him.

As you sigh and settle into the pillows, he makes an effort to move towards you, but is too weak to make any progress. He pouts in desperation, his hair flopping in the process. “Help me,” he whines.

“What do you want to do?” you laugh.

“I want to put my head on your chest,” he sighs in defeat while he lays his head back down on his pillow. “But I can’t even move my dumb, useless body to do that.”

“C'mere,” you wiggle down so that your bodies are aligned with one another, your torsos touching. “There, now just lay your head down.”

Mark, finally able to get his dumb, useless body to do what he wants it to do, sighs contentedly into your chest. You smirk and begin running your fingers through his hair, knowing that it’ll relax him into what you hope will be a restful sleep.

You channel-surf while your other half comments on how soft your oversized sweater is and how good you smell, eventually allowing all of his weight to rest on yours. You relish in the pressure, knowing that although you will probably get sick by being this close to him, it’s worth it.

Moving from his hair, you rub your hand up and down his broad back, worried about how warm he feels. You softly ask him if he’s cold, knowing that if he confirms, he’s most likely got a fever, but you get no response. You take this as a good sign - that he’s finally fallen asleep - and you decide to watch whatever’s on Bravo until he wakes up and demands that you change it immediately.

Eventually, the rhythm that you’ve created by rubbing his back along with the warm weight he’s placed on you causes you to drift off into a light sleep. Your grip on the remote control weakens and you stop paying attention to whatever vapid things are being said on the television.

“Babe,” Mark’s panicked voice wakes you up.

“What? What?!” you try to sit up, but his bodyweight keeps you mostly immobile.

“I’m gonna puke again,” he warns, trying his hardest to get off the bed.

“Shit,” you mutter, sliding out from underneath him. You frantically run to the other side of the bed to help him. “I forgot the fucking bucket again!”


End file.
